The speed limit is what?
by ChibiStarr
Summary: England decides that he needs to give America lessons on how to properly drive. America does not approve.


**A/N: This was a present for one of my friends over at DA. For her birthday she wanted fic about "England teaching America to drive" and I did my best :'D Considering that it's the first time I ever wrote England and America into a story I feel quite proud of myself.**

**Time period is a bit vague here, although it is after 1900. And they aren't "lessons" per se, since my America and England love to argue XD**

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><p>"Why do I have to learn how to drive this thing? You know my people are much better at it than yours."<p>

England felt his eye twitch and resisted the incredibly tempting urge to smack his hand to his forehead. That insufferable grin America was giving him rubbed at his already thin patience like sandpaper, and it didn't help that America was speaking the truth in a sense. The Locomotive Acts had restricted the use of automobiles in his country, and therefore not many people used them. America, however, had taken to them like a fish to water and had been mass producing them while England had still been a little behind in their use. It frustrated the island country to no end.

"Because," he said once he had counted slowly to ten, "if you insist on coming all the way to my house just to brag about your silly locomotive then you at least need to learn how to drive properly." He fixed Alfred with a stare that had been terribly effective when he had been a young boy still under his rule.

"Had been" was the key word however. The stare simply bounced off of the younger country like water off a duck. He stared at Arthur with an expression that Arthur once described as "selective denseness" and then burst into laughter. Loud, raucous laughter that for the oddest reason made Arthur think that he was being insulted. _One…two…_ he started to count again and clenched his fists behind his back, keeping his face as neutral as possible. He waited politely until Alfred had quieted down.

"Drive properly? That's a riot Artie," America chuckled, using the nickname that Arthur had told him hundreds of times not to call him by. "I got here, didn't I?" He asked, waving a hand towards the general area around them. They were in the countryside, and standing by the only road within miles. They were also the only people within miles, which is exactly what England wanted. There was no sense in bringing America to London so he could put all of his citizens in danger.

"That is hardly an excuse," Arthur countered, his heavy brows furrowing.

"It is where I come from," Alfred replied, grin growing wider. He was actually enjoying England's growing irritation, which was why it was so hard for England to keep a straight face. It was as if the boy had created an art in which he did nothing except annoy him in the quickest fashion possible. Cheeky bastard. "Besides, you have that whole anti-automobile thing still going on so you wouldn't know as much."

England felt the blood rise to his face. "No we don't! We changed those acts years ago; get your bloody facts straight!" He punctuated his statement by swatting Alfred on the back of the head, although not enough to injure him.

America danced away from a second blow, laughing and holding up his hands. "Okay, okay, fine. But that still doesn't mean you're a better driver than I am."

He didn't rise to the bait. "Judging from the gouges you just put there—" he pointed to the earth next to the road, where two lines of ripped up dirt and grass traced a path all the way to the automobile parked innocently behind Alfred "—I believe your definition of a 'good' driver needs to be checked."

"Pfft. Your ground is just too soft."

He started counting. Again. "Just get in the car, dammit! I'm going to show you how to properly drive so the next time you are here I won't have to constantly worry over the safety of my people." Honestly, if America drove like that on a country road where there wasn't a single soul in sight then he wanted the reckless country as far away from his cities as possible. His scowl deepened when he saw America roll his eyes and climb into the passenger's seat. "Get on the other side, git," he growled, jerking his thumb at the other seat.

"No way!" America snapped back. "I ain't letting you drive my new car!"

England opened his mouth to tell him that it was "am not" and _not _"ain't" and he did _not _raise him to speak that way when the last bit of America's sentence caught up to him. His frown of anger turned into confusion when he saw that there was indeed a tiller in front of America. "Why the bloody hell is your tiller on the wrong side?" He yelled, finding absolutely nothing else to say.

Alfred's eyes widened. "What?" he asked oh-so-intelligently before going on. "You mean your cars have the steering thing on the other side? What's wrong with you people?"

"Nothing is wrong with that!" England snapped, his temper rising as sat down in the driver—no, _passenger—_seat. "And what did you just call this thing?"

For a moment America raised one golden eyebrow in silent questioning before his eyes lit up in realization. "Oh, a car! It's a horseless carriage, so you shorten that out to 'car'! It also sounds like the Latin word, _carrus._" He smiled widely at that, probably thinking himself as terribly clever for that.

"That sounds ridiculous," Arthur muttered, although he accepted the word with quiet resignation. It certainly made it easier than saying "locomotive" all of the time. Not that he would tell America that. He jumped when the motor suddenly roared to life under them. "Just what do you think you're doing?" He demanded, swinging around to glare at Alfred.

The emerald fire in those eyes did nothing to detract from Alfred's expression. He was grinning like the devil himself as he shifted the stick near his knee. "Showing you my awesome driving skills," he said. "You'll see that I might have to give _you _lessons instead!"

Arthur felt his stomach plummet somewhere into the vicinity of his boots. "Don't you dare go tearing up my r—aaaaah!" He screamed as America backed up so harshly that they were nearly thrown out of the seat. Thankfully they had to stop so he could switch gears and Arthur immediately went for the tiller. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Give that right now, before you make us crash!"

Despite its two occupants fighting, the car was still managing to increase in speed, even though it was going all over the admittedly small road. "Stop it, Iggy!" America yelled, calling by yet _another_ nickname that he had no love for. "You might make us go off the road!"

"Keep your eyes on the road dammit!"

"I'm trying to but that's very hard when you're trying to grab my pants like tha—"

"I'M NOT GRABBING YOUR BLOODY TROUSERS!"

"Ow, that was my _ears _you just killed—"

"Slow down, we're going way too fast! You can kill someone with speeds like this!"

"This thing only goes twenty-five miles an hour!"

"That's over the speed limit!"

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><p><strong>AN: Wanted to make this longer, where America crashed the car because of England and England had to get him a new car. I couldn't make it fit however so I cut it out.**

**Like I said, the year is vague. It's obviously after the last Locomotive Act (1898), which really did restrict the use of automobiles quite a bit in England but around this time they were letting up some. **

**America is driving an Oldsmobile Curved Dash, which was the first mass produced car (no, it was not Henry Ford). I noticed an interesting thing though: it didn't have doors (hence why they are not mentioned) and it didn't have a steering wheel. Instead there was a joystick-looking thing that I heard was called a tiller back then. I think it was more in the middle of the car too, but I needed to throw the "steering-device-on-the-wrong-side" argument in there. The car was first produced in 1901 which leads to even more confusion about the exact date.**

**The speed limit was also 14 miles an hour, or so I've been told. The Oldsmobile could go up to 25 mph. I did my homework on this one . :D**


End file.
